American Hustle

This actually happened in December, but I'm only now getting around to writing about it.  Therefore, it may be filled with lies and hyperbole.


SCENE: MALL OF AMERICA (aka: The Bastion of Consumer Excess and Symbol of Everything That is Wrong with this Country)


Me: How do we get down to the amusement park?

Matt: Where is the escalator?  There used to be an escalator here.

Me: Hmmm... We could walk around to the elevator. Or we can go through that store.  It has two levels.

Matt turns around and sees what I'm pointing at.  His face becomes the combination of fear, disgust, and something gassy.

Matt:  I'm NOT going in that fucking place!

He actually drops the f-bomb in front of Sena.

This is the place I was pointing at.

Me (looking nervously at Sena): We'll just run through, okay.  She won't even notice.

Sena: Notice what, Momma?

Me:  Nothing, honey.  We're just going to go through this store here, okay.

Sena: I want to go on a ride!

Me: Yes, rides!

I push open the door and steer her through the explosion of dresses and dolls and the CAFETERIA WHERE YOU CAN GO AND EAT LUNCH WITH YOUR DOLL!

Matt: Oh my God, that is weird.

Me: It's kind of creepy too.  They even do hairstyles and stuff.

Matt (shrieking): What?

The place is red and pink and there are lights everywhere.  I can't seem to find an aisle leading me out, and I realize it's exactly like Vegas and the casinos.  They herd you around until you get confused and give up and keep spending money.  I bet they put gas in the vents.  The air smells like a toxic mix of sugar and fruity lip gloss.

Me:  Hurry!  This way!

Sena, thankfully, doesn't really look at any of the dolls and clothes.  She's on a mission.  And that mission is SpongeBob amusement park.

Matt grabs a sweater from the rack.  It's for a doll.

Matt (hissing): This is thirty-five dollars!

Me: I don't spend thirty-five dollars on a sweater for myself.

Somehow we find our way out.  I burst through the doors, inhaling the fresh scent of curly fries and disinfectant.  It smells like freedom.

Me:  We made it.

Matt: Thank God!

Still, somehow the American Girls have found out where we live.  I keep getting their catalog, but Sena has been immune to their charms.

For now anyway.